


The Wolf and the Lion

by PlayingTheGameOfThrones



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst galore, Angst with a Happy Ending, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Pining, Slow Burn, Some Fluff, lol what is canon, mostly angst, tyrion is dumb. A lot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-29 20:45:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 11,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3910057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PlayingTheGameOfThrones/pseuds/PlayingTheGameOfThrones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU wherein Sansa/Tyrion is love at first sight.</p><p>**Sansa has been aged up to 15**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Lannister in Winterfell

The girl was a vision.

 

_And she could have been yours._

 

She stood second in line of the Stark children, all standing in the castle's yard, grey stone walls guarded by gargoyles rising up on all sides. Snow drifted lazily down, dotting the children's hair. Where Sansa Stark's father and younger sister had the dark hair, grey eyes, and long faces of the Starks, Sansa and her other siblings had their mother's coloring, the red hair and blue eyes of the Tullys of Riverrun, the same colors that graced their coat of arms. The girl was almost of a height with her eldest brother, tall and proud, with a neck pale and graceful as a swan's, with just the slightest hint of a woman's figure beneath her dress.

 

And gods, what a dress it was! Red and black and chased with embroidered direwolves, it made her auburn hair glow and brought out the flush in her cheeks. Where Winterfell and its people were clothed in the grey and white of winter, Sansa Stark was radiant as the sun. For just a moment, he let himself believe she had dressed in such a way for him, he who might have been her betrothed, if Cersei had gotten her way.

 

 _Look closer, Imp,_ he reprimanded himself. _Baratheon black and Lannister red._ And from the way Sansa was gazing at Prince Joffrey, it was clear she had already heard the rumors of her betrothal. _She was never yours. You refused her._

 

Tyrion sighed and dismounted his horse with help from a Lannister squire. He nodded his thanks and walked stiffly over to where the Stark family was assembled, gretting their guests. He stepped up first to Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn, greeting Eddard and kissing Lady Catelyn's hand. As he moved down the line to the youngest children, he could feel Lord Stark's cold grey eyes watching him. _This one would never consent to a Lannister marrying any of his daughters, let alone the eldest,_ he thought as he ruffled the hair of the youngest Stark, little Rickon, and moved on to Bran and Arya. _How ironic that Sansa should be marrying Joff, then._ He breezed quickly past Bran and Arya and found himself standing in front of the child-woman that might have been his bride.

 

Sansa broke into a smile and curtsied, the curtsy deeper and smoother than any he had ever seen, even from royal girls. _This creature isn't a girl, she's the Maiden come to life._ "My lord Tyrion," she said as she brought herself to her full height. _Gods, but she is tall._

 

"Lady Sansa," he said, kissing her hand. _She may be tall, but her hands are small._ And soft and warm, but Tyrion banished those thoughts almost before they formed. "We hear tell of your beauty even in Casterly Rock."

 

Sansa smiled and clasped her hands in front of herself. "Thank you, my lord. All the Seven Kingdoms has heard tell of the lions of Lannister."

 

"Ah, yes," Tyrion said, rocking back on his heels. "We're all golden lions and we all roar when displeased."

 

Sansa laughed. "And all Starks are direwolves when the moon turns. But don't tell anyone," she added, lowering her voice. "Arya hasn't gone through the change yet. We have to keep it a secret, you know."

 

"Of course." Tyrion laughed. "Well, it was lovely meeting you, Lady Sansa, but I've had a long journey and I am not nearly so accustomed to the chill as you Northerners, so I must retire to my chambers."

 

"The pleasure is mine, Lord Tyrion." _Funny: she looks in my eyes, and not as if I were a dwarf, not the Half-Man, but a man like any other._ "I trust I will see you at the feast later this evening."

 

"Regret your decision, little brother?" Jaime asked as he removed his helm and dismounted from his horse. "She _is_ a beauty."

 

Tyrion sighed and gulped down wine from a flask at his hip. "She is just a girl."

 

"A woman flowered and ready for betrothal," Jaime corrected, handing his horse off to a Winterfell stable boy. "And she could have been yours."

 

"Nonsense." Tyrion watched as Sansa and her siblings - her head bent together with her sister Arya's, giggling and whispering - were herded back into the castle. "Girls like her can never belong to anyone but themselves."


	2. Midnight in Winterfell

The king had come to Winterfell, and Sansa Stark could not sleep.

 

She wasn't sure if it was the excitement of the day, her sister Arya's snoring in the next bed, or the lantern light blazing from a window of the library directly across the yard that was keeping her awake, but it _was_ the lone lantern light that sent her out of bed and to her wardrobe, determined to discover its source.

 

 _Perhaps it's Prince Joffrey, and he's a scholar as well as a warrior,_ Sansa mused to herself as she tossed a Stark grey-and-white travelling cloak over her nightgown. _All the best princes in all the best stories are brave as well as intelligent, scholars as well as knights._ She slipped out the door, careful not to wake Arya. Arya could sleep through a battle, but Sansa didn't want questions, or, gods forbid, Arya begging to join her.

 

 _You're acting like Arya yourself now,_ she chided herself as she scurried through the hall and into the yard. _What would Mother think if she knew you were walking about at night with guests in the castle?_ But the light from the library was brighter out here, and it was too late to turn back.

 

As she stepped over drifts of late-summer snow, holding her hem an inch above the ground, she felt like a lady in a song, sneaking out at night to meet her beloved. She paused beside the window the light was leaking through, rising up on her toes to try to catch a glimpse of who was inside. No luck; from this distance, all she could see was the shadow of a man hunched over a book, his shadow shifting with the candlelight. _Doesn't look like Joffrey,_ she thought to herself, furrowing her brow. But she stepped away from the window and gingerly pushed open the library door, not wanting to disturb whoever was inside.

 

"Hello?" she called softly, unable to see to the table where the lantern and its owner sat from behind a case filled with books.

 

"Over here," a voice replied from behind the shelves, the voice too deep to belong to Prince Joffrey. For a moment, Sansa felt the overwhelming urge to run away, to run back to bedchamber and pretend she'd never indulged in such rebellion. What had she been thinking? But whoever had made a midnight visit to the library already knew she was here, and she was to be a queen. Queens didn't run. Sansa could not imagine Queen Cersei even _thinking_ of running away when she was afraid.

 

Sansa raised her chin and stepped around the shelves, willing her nervousness not to show. But all thoughts of fear quickly turned to those of surprise when she saw who was up at such a late hour: the little Lord Tyrion Lannister, the younger brother of the queen, whose eyes had held onto hers so queerly when they greeted each other in the yard earlier in the day.

 

"Lady Sansa!" Tyrion exclaimed when he caught sight of her, hopping to his feet. "I thought you were one of the serving women. Forgive me if I have given offense."

 

Sansa smiled and found herself taking a seat across the table from where Tyrion had laid out quite an impressive collection of books. There was something about the little lord that made Sansa feel comfortable. "Don't be silly, my lord. Please sit down."

 

Tyrion returned her smile and took his seat. "Thank you, my lady. May I ask what you're still doing awake at such a late hour?"

 

"I could ask you the same thing, my lord."

 

The look in Tyrion's eyes softened. "I suppose you could." He shut the book that had been lying open in front of him. "Winterfell has the largest library in the North, and one of the largest in Westeros. I meant to sneak away to come here earlier, but the day's festivities did not give me a chance."

 

"The day was quite busy, wasn't it?" It had been the best day of Sansa's fifteen years. "It must be nice to retire to a quiet place like this after all the excitement." Sansa imagined that Tyrion had been to many more feasts than she had, and so no longer found them quite so fun. And if she thought about it, Sansa could feel a tiredness settling over her, wearing her down. She could see why Lord Tyrion would seek out such a place, in the same way she would settle with her wolf and sing or sew when she needed to relax.

 

"I take it you do not get many kings visiting castles in the North," Tyrion said. "You tire of all the feasting and finery eventually. I would know; my sister is the queen. With her, the celebration never stops."

 

Sansa smiled. Now that she looked closer, she could see the famed Lannister beauty in Lord Tyrion's face, in the high cheekbones and the green in his eyes and the gold in his hair. With the candlelight flickering light and shadow across his face, she could almost mistake him for his brother Ser Jaime. Sansa leaned forward on her elbows. "What were you reading before I so rudely interrupted you, my lord?"

 

"Tyrion, my lady. Call me Tyrion."

 

Sansa tossed her hair. "And none of this 'my lady' business. Call me Sansa."

 

"Sansa." The corner of Tyrion's mouth twisted up in a half-grin. "Actually, I was reading about direwolves before you joined me. The sigil of your House. Fascinating creatures. I thought there was no better place to begin reading about them."

 

A slow smile spread over Sansa's face. "Why _read_ about direwolves when you can _meet_ a direwolf?"


	3. A Dangerous Game

On the morning before Tyrion Lannister was to depart for the Wall with Ned Stark’s bastard son, a page jostled him from his sleep.

          “The Lady Sansa has a message for you, m’lord,” he said softly, as if trying to keep from waking the rest of the castle. Tyrion reached with clumsy hands for the letter the page pressed at him. Before Tyrion could ask what Sansa wanted of him, the boy had already gone.

          Rubbing dragon dreams from his eyes – Tyrion had never dreamed of dragons half so much as he had within the walls of Winterfell – he broke the direwolf seal with a tired smile. _Always the Lady. You would think her the Lady of Winterfell instead of her mother._ Tyrion’s smile widened as he read over the letter, Sansa’s handwriting curved and elegant, requesting his presence in the _godswood_ , of all places.

          _The godswood,_ Tyrion mused to himself as he dressed in the dawn light. Casterly Rock’s godswood was a pitiful thing, filled of half-dead sentinel pines and seabird nests underfoot. He imagined Winterfell’s godswood would be quite a different affair, with an ancient weirwood at its center. Here in the North where the old gods still ruled, the godswood must be a thing to behold.

          Snow had fallen in the night, leaving the grounds of Winterfell looking new and pure, a world without life. Tyrion felt almost bad about sullying the new snow with his footprints; but as he circled a turret and came to the edge of the godswood, he found another pair of prints: tiny slippered feet spaced close together, with the prints of a wolf beside them.

          He found the two of them standing before the heart tree, just as he had suspected he would. Girl and direwolf stood side by side, their heads held high, each bundled in white fur, the direwolf in her own and the girl in a cloak. He could just see the tip of Sansa’s nose and her bright blue eyes regarding him from beneath her hood, a few strands of bright red hair swirling around her in the morning wind.

          Tyrion stepped gingerly over a snowbank and offered Sansa a smile. “Good morning, Lady Sansa,” he said. “And good morning, Lady.” The direwolf pricked her ears in response. Tyrion remembered meeting the wolf for the first time a handful of weeks before, and the back of his legs stung with the memory of being knocked over and licked until Sansa had had enough amusement and called the creature back to her side. Standing before him now, with the heart tree’s gruesome face behind them, he could almost imagine the girl and the wolf were more than just master and pet.

          Sansa’s eyes glittered as she lowered her hood, but she did not smile. Tyrion caught his breath; in the morning light, Sansa was the Maiden come to life, her cheeks flushed red and her eyes bright, her skin pale and smooth as porcelain. “What’s this I hear about you accompanying my half-brother to the Wall?” Sansa demanded, sounding every bit the queen she would one day become. _She will make Joffrey a good queen,_ he couldn’t help but think to himself, though the thought stung. He didn’t care to think why it stung. _A better queen than he deserves._

 _And a better woman than you deserve, Imp,_ he chastised himself. _Or have you forgotten?_

“My lady,” Tyrion said, his tongue clumsy in his mouth as he banished the thought. “You’ve heard it true, I fear. I’ve always wanted to see the Wall. I suspect this is as good a chance as any.” It was probably the only chance he would ever have, Tyrion knew. There was little chance the Starks would invite the Lannisters – any Lannisters – back to Winterfell ever again.

          Sansa threatened to smile. “I hope you’re not planning on taking the black.”

          “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.” _Perhaps you would be better off taking the black. You’re not like to be any use to anyone lusting after the prince’s betrothed._ “I doubt a life of freezing solitude would suit me.”

          Sansa smiled a tiny smile. “Will you return to the capital at the end of your journey?” Was that hope Tyrion sensed in her voice?

          “Oh, I don’t know,” he teased her, biting back a smile. “I might return to Casterly Rock…it _is_ my home, after all.”

          “I’m going to be _queen_ one day,” Sansa said, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin. Lady took a cue from her mistress and rose to her feet, holding her tail at attention. The pair of them even _looked_ rather regal standing there in front of the Starks’ heart tree, its red eyes glowing accusingly out from its white trunk, as if protecting its lady and her wolf from him, a stranger to the North and its gods.

          “Yes, Your Grace,” Tyrion said, smiling and bowing his head, ignoring the stare of the tree. “There’s no other queen I would rather serve.”

*

“I’ve heard the Stark girl is quite taken with you, little brother.” Jaime Lannister appeared in the doorway of Tyrion’s bedchamber, a wicked grin on his face. “I thought you refused our sweet sister’s offer.”

          “Haven’t you heard?” Tyrion asked, setting down his book and reclining in his seat. “No one refuses our sweet sister without losing his head.”

          Jaime shut the door behind him and leaned against the frame. Even at the late hour, he still wore his gold plate, his sword at his side. “I was not aware the king was in my bedchamber, dear brother,” Tyrion remarked. “Shouldn’t you be guarding the good king and queen from our gracious hosts? I have it on good authority they return to their lupine state when the moon is full.”

          “Always with a jape on hand.” Jaime shook his head. With his golden curls catching the candlelight and his face in shadow, he could almost be their sister. “You grow predictable.”

          Tyrion sighed and turned back to his book. Another from the library; he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt at the thought that Sansa might be waiting for him there still. But when he shut his eyes, he could still see the eyes of the heart tree, the queenly tilt of Sansa’s chin, and could still feel the hate he’d felt there in the godswood, like the heart tree knew he didn’t belong here. Not in the godswood, not in Winterfell, not in the North. He would have called off his journey to the Wall, but he would rather enter the heart of winter itself than return to Casterly Rock where his father still ruled, and he thought it best he not accompany Lady Sansa south. “Did you come visit me just to make japes at my expense or does this have some purpose aside from pestering me about the company I keep?”

          “I just came to warn you.”

          “So noted.”

          Jaime straightened his shoulders. “This is a dangerous game you’re playing, little brother.” He rested his hand on the doorknob but did not turn it, keeping his green eyes on his little brother.

          “As is yours, Ser Jaime.”

          Jaime shut the door quietly behind him. He did not have to ask what game Tyrion meant.


	4. A Wolf in the Keep

Sansa Stark shut her eyes and thought of Winterfell. It was the only way to keep her tears from falling, the only way to keep from picturing Septa Mordane and her father's heads staked on the battlements all over again. It was the only way she could go home.

She knew now Joffrey would never let her leave the castle, let alone return home to Winterfell. She was to be his bride, his queen, after all. And now he had killed her father and her septa. He knew she had no reason to be loyal to him now that he had killed everyone she cared for.

 _Not everyone,_ she thought to herself. _Not Mother, not Arya. Not Robb. Not Tyrion._ Sansa hadn't heard what had become of her younger brothers Bran and Rickon; perhaps they were alive too, perhaps dead like Father and Septa Mordane.

Tyrion. She hadn't seen Tyrion in so long. She knew her mother had kidnapped him on the road to the Vale, but hadn't heard a word since then. Had her mother had the little lord killed? Was Tyrion dead as well? Sansa didn't know if she could bear it. And at the hands of her mother, the only parent she had left. _If not for her, I would be an orphan,_ Sansa thought. Like a girl in a song.

But not the kind of song Sansa had always fancied.

"Had enough yet, Lady Sansa?" she heard Joffrey snarl, and she forced herself to bring her blue eyes to his green. Once she had thought her betrothed was handsome, even beautiful, with his golden hair and green eyes like a summer's day come to life. But now all she saw was the cruel twist of his lips, the grease in his unwashed hair. She hated the sight of her reflection in his eyes, wanted to claw them out of his skull so he could never lay eyes on her again.

But Sansa didn't wish to die, not yet. She still had people in the world to stay alive for. _Mother, Robb, Arya, Tyrion._ She repeated their names to herself as if they were a prayer, and she forced herself to smile, the cut in her bottom lip deepening and spilling blood down her chin as she did so. "I will have had enough when you decree it so, my king," she simpered, hating herself all the while.

Joffrey sneered but turned and strode away from her. Sansa swallowed hard and wiped away the blood on her chin before glancing behind her at her father's rotting head, and following after Joffrey, her breakfast crawling up her throat.

 _Mother, Robb, Arya, Tyrion,_ she thought as she swept down a hall of the Red Keep toward her bedchamber. She wondered if her mantra did count as a prayer, and who she should pray to. The Maiden? The Mother? The Crone? She tried to stutter out a prayer for wisdom to the Crone so that she might know the answer, but found her throat too thick with tears to continue, and her mind too cluttered to remember much of the prayer.

 _Please_ , she thought to herself instead, though she didn't know what she was pleading for. _Please_.

"Lady Sansa?" Sansa heard a man's voice from behind her, and she spun about, eyes widening in surprise and fear. Was it her turn to be executed, her head to decorate the castle's wall next?

But it wasn't. Instead of the Hound, she saw Tyrion standing in front of her, his eyes soft and sad. "Lady Stark, I – " he began, but he never finished, because at that moment Sansa had crouched down in front of him and crushed him to her chest, her tears dampening his hair.

 


	5. The Tower of the Hand

Tyrion Lannister shut the door of his chambers behind Sansa Stark and went to stand by his desk, across the room from the girl who still had tears gleaming in her eyes.

"Lady Sansa," he said, his voice soft, and Sansa shut her eyes to keep tears from falling. "I am so sorry for your loss."

Sansa took a deep, shuddering breath, and her rehearsed lies were spilling from her mouth without any effort on her part: "My father was a traitor. My mother and brother are traitors too. I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey."

Tyrion's gut twisted inside of him. Someone taught her well in his absence. "Sansa, it's me. You don't have to lie to me."

For a brief moment, Sansa considered letting herself tell him the truth. But she had already let her guard down once when she hugged him in full view of the court. To tell him her secrets – how she cried herself to sleep at night, how she would wake from nightmares crying out for her dead direwolf Lady, or her dead father Ned Stark, how she had, more than once, opened her window and almost jumped out of it – was far too dangerous. However kind he might have been to her all those months ago in Winterfell, he was still a Lannister. And even though Lady had liked the smell of him, that didn't make her any less dead. That didn't mean Tyrion still hadn't left her with his cruel sister, the Queen Cersei.

"I am telling the truth."

"Where's your direwolf, Sansa?" Tyrion asked, his brow crinkling. "Does Cersei have her chained up in the kennel? I'll have her brought to your rooms immediately. You always seemed so calm when you were with her –"

"Lady is dead, my lord." Sansa raised her chin in the air, refusing to look the little lord in the eye for fear of bursting into tears. "Your sister had her killed."

Tyrion opened his mouth as if to say something, but he never did. Sansa grew tired of waiting. "Do I have your leave to go, my lord?"

Now it was Tyrion's turn to swallow back tears. He knew his sister to be wicked and cruel, but to punish this sweet girl... _you could have protected her, kept her safe, but you refused her, Imp._ "Of course. Goodbye, Lady Sansa."

"Goodbye, Lord Tyrion."

Tyrion stood and watched her go, then turned and poured himself a glass of wine.


	6. A Dream of Wolves

Cersei had offered the Stark girl to Tyrion in the weeks before their arrival at Winterfell, somewhere along the kingsroad _. I will never let my son marry a Stark,_ she had said, green eyes flashing. _But I will let a Stark marry_ you.

This had rankled Tyrion from the start. _Let_ him marry a Stark? Cersei might be the Queen, but she was not his mother. His mother was dead in the ground, killed by him upon his birth. If only the same could be said for Cersei...

Tyrion slammed his fists against the heavy oaken door Lady Sansa had just disappeared through. _She could have been yours. You thought you were saving the girl from the humiliating fate of marrying a dwarf, but instead you gave her to a monster._

"Is that you, my lion?" he heard Shae's voice call from his bedchamber, and he was reminded that he was a monster, too. He, too, was undeserving of Lady Sansa's affections. At least Joffrey was a comely monster.

"What did I tell you about coming into the Keep?" Tyrion asked as he raked his eyes over the whore lounging across his bed.

"Not to do it," Shae replied, her mouth twisting into a wicked smile. He felt his cock twitch, and hated himself for it. "But I needed you so badly, milord."

He fucked her into the mattress that night, imagining the black hair tangled in his fists was red, and it was Sansa's voice calling his name. 

When he shut his eyes, he was instantly caught up into a dream of snow and howling wolves.

 


	7. Midnight in King's Landing

_"Daddy!" The blade descended, cutting a vicious arc through the air. "No! Please!" Sunlight glinting off the Valyrian steel, it struck her father's neck. "You promised!" Sansa heard herself scream as if it were someone else, someone very far away from her. "Mercy! You swore you would be merciful!"_

_The red of her father's lifeblood splattered across her blue dress, staining her with gore. She looked down at her hands with her father's blood coating the palms, as if she had been the one to take his head. What had she done, what had she done? What had she –_

Sansa jolted upward with a gasp, her hands fluttering to her own throat, as if she had been the one to lose her head. "Father," she whimpered, drawing her blankets closer. "Lady." The names of her dead. "Bran. Rickon." After a beat, she lay back against her pillows and added her sister's name. "Arya." The names of her septa and her dear friend Jeyne Poole followed. Then, the names of those still remaining to her: "Mother. Robb," she whispered to the ceiling. "Jon." She paused, remembering someone still remained to her in this very castle, and swung her legs over the side of the bed as she whispered his name. "Tyrion."

She slipped a silver cloak over her nightgown and crossed the floor. "Tyrion," she said again, savoring the shape and taste of his name in her mouth. The only friend that remained to her. "Tyrion."

She retrieved a candle from her vanity table and cupped her hand around the sputtering flame as she crept out of her bedchamber. The queen had been posting guards outside her room since her father died, but Sansa didn't see anyone in the hall. Ser Meryn must have been out at a tavern, and Ser Kettleblack with one of his women, the other members of the Kingsguard with more important people than the disgraced daughter of the traitor Ned Stark. Sansa offered up a silent prayer of thanks to the Seven and darted soundlessly down the hall to the Tower of the Hand.

***

Shae's soft breathing was keeping Tyrion Lannister awake as he lie abed with her in his bedchamber in the Tower of the Hand. Tyrion would have thought sleeping with another person in his bed would have made sleep come quicker, easier. But the opposite was true. He couldn't stop picturing Lady Sansa in his mind, her red hair done up in the elaborate southern style, her blue eyes welling up with tears. Would that it were Sansa beside him, and not the camp follower.

Just then, a knock sounded on his door, and Shae mumbled in her sleep before turning over. Tyrion slipped out of bed, pulling a robe over his sleep clothes, heading for the door. He expected to see Varys, maybe Littlefinger, waking him at this hour to discuss one of their little plots with him. But when he opened the door, he was shocked to see the one person he had most been wanting to see.

"Lady Sansa," he said, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. "What are you doing here at this time of night?"

He could see her begin to look behind him at his bedchamber, and he wished not for the first time that he were taller, so that he might hide Shae's sleeping frame from the girl in front of him.

"I couldn't sleep, Lord Tyrion," Sansa said softly, clasping her hands in front of her. "I thought I might see if you were still awake."

"Of course," Tyrion said, "of course. I was up myself."

"Tyrion?" Shae's sleep heavy voice came from the bed behind him. Tyrion cringed.

"Who is that, my lord?" Sansa asked, but she seemed to change her mind about wanting to know before Tyrion could answer. "Never mind, my lord. Goodnight."

She was gone down the hall before he could call after her.


	8. Almost More Than A Friend

Tyrion closed the heavy oaken door and turned slowly on his heel to face Shae. "Shae," he murmured, voice low with a warning. "This isn't Lorath, or even a war camp. This is King's Landing. It's dangerous here." 

Shae rolled her almond-shaped eyes and lounged back against the pillows, her black hair catching the lantern light. "I'm not a child, milord," she huffed.

 _But you are_ , Tyrion thought to himself as he climbed into bed beside her. Shae might have had three years on the Lady Sansa, but she was years her junior when it came to intellect and grace, and, well, everything else.

 _Sansa_. Tyrion flinched and shut his eyes. Even calling her name to mind was painful. He rolled into his side and buried his face in Shae's perfumed hair, trying to erase the look in Sansa's eyes from his memory. He slowly drifted off into a restless sleep.

  
***

  
Sansa slipped back into her bed, extinguishing the lantern flame with a breath. _How could he_ , she found herself thinking. _He was never yours_ , another voice answered. _I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey._

 _Beloved_. The word turned her stomach. Her fingers toyed with the blankets. _My beloved Joffrey._ He hadn't felt like her beloved _anything_ since the day he promised her mercy and gave her Ned Stark's head instead. Lord Tyrion had been her only friend in the lonely days since her father died and she'd been kept a prisoner in the keep, a pretty bird trained to repeat words that weren't her own, her only purpose to one day become a monster's queen.

Lord Tyrion had been...almost...almost more than a friend, since she had first met him that late summer morning in Winterfell a thousand years ago. The way he had looked at her that day, in the foolish dress she'd made in Lannister red and Baratheon black, the way his eyes had settled on hers and stayed there. Of course he wasn't handsome, wasn't beautiful like Loras or Joffrey, but...there had been kindness in his eyes that day, and every day since, a kindness she hadn't seen in anyone else since she'd come to King's Landing. And she was finding that was far more important than a pretty face.


	9. A New Handmaiden

"My lady?"

Sansa turned to find a young woman with olive skin and dark curls standing in her bedchamber doorway, a pink silk gown draped over her curvy figure. Something about her was oddly familiar, but Sansa couldn't place her. "Yes?" she asked.

"I'm to be your new handmaiden, milady," the woman said, an Essosi accent coloring her words.

"What happened to my last handmaiden?" She had been a spy for the queen of course, but it was unusual for a handmaiden to just disappear, even if Sansa didn't much care what had happened to her. She hadn't even known her name, but with her blonde hair and green eyes she must have been a Lannister cousin.

"Gone," the foreign woman said, a smirk on her face.

"Gone," Sansa repeated, annoyance creeping into her voice.

"I'm your handmaiden now, milady," the woman said, as if the conversation was over.

"Who sent you? The queen?"

"No, milady."

"Not the queen?" Sansa stepped closer. "The king, then?" Now that she could see the woman's face more clearly, Sansa saw that she couldn't have been more than a few years older than herself.

"No, milady."

"Then who?" Was the queen playing some new game with her? Were the rules changing again? _One slip and I'm dead_ , Sansa reminded herself.

"Lord Tyrion, milady. The queen's brother."

"I know who Lord Tyrion is," Sansa snapped.

"Do you?" the woman asked, her lips twisting into a wicked grin, and suddenly Sansa knew who she was, her heart clenching in her chest like a fist.

"What is your name?" Sansa asked, raising her chin and looking down at her new handmaiden, who was at least a head shorter.

"Shae, milady."

"And who did you serve before you came to this castle?"

"Lady Zhoref."

"There is no Lady Zhoref in this city."

"She wasn't in this city, milady," Shae said, her canines catching the candlelight like a threat.

"Why did Lord Tyrion send you?" Sansa was proud to hear her voice did not tremble despite her pounding heart.

"Your last handmaiden was a spy for the queen. Lord Tyrion didn't like that."

A moment passed in tense silence before Sansa spoke again. "Are you just going to stand there?" She felt tears prick the backs of her eyes. This was the woman she'd seen in his bed. This was the woman he...he loved. And he'd sent her to be her handmaiden. Had she...had she imagined...imagined the look in his eyes, imagined what they'd done together that day in Winterfell? Had it all been just another dream? Like the dreams where her father was still alive, where Lady was still alive, where her brothers and her sister were still alive, where they had never left Winterfell?

"What would you like me to do, milady?" Shae asked, breaking the silence that had fallen while Sansa was lost in her thoughts.

"Just...brush my hair," Sansa said, saying the first thing that came to her mind. She could remember how Tyrion's hand had felt as he passed it through her hair, could remember...

Sansa sat at her mirror, Shae following close behind. As the foreign woman raked a brush through her red curls, Sansa clenched and unclenched her fingers under the vanity table, the fingernails digging into the flesh of her palms a reminder to keep her tears to herself. _I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey. One slip, and I am dead._


	10. A Royal Wedding

  
Sansa stood on her chambers' balcony, facing north. She knew that just outside the city limits, there sat Stannis Baratheon, a pretender to the throne, and his army. And then more north still, there were the Riverlands, where her lady mother was born, and then the Neck, and then north and north still, sat Winterfell. It comforted her to know that her home still stood, ancient and strong, even if it was so many thousands of leagues away, even if half its buildings had been burned by Theon Greyjoy and its people put to the sword by his army of ironborn.

 _Let Stannis Baratheon take the city_ , she besieged the Warrior silently, shutting her eyes against the last evening rays. _Let him cut Joffrey and the queen's throats. Let him send me home._ She didn't think she would mind if Stannis killed all the Lannisters in the city. Even Tyrion.

 _No. No, not Tyrion_. She couldn't train her heart to hate him. Not yet, anyway. He hadn't hurt her like the others.

"My lady?" She heard from behind her, and she wondered if she had spoken too soon.

"I would like to be left alone, Shae," Sansa said, letting her annoyance seep into her voice. She still couldn't fathom why Tyrion had sent her this idiot to be her handmaiden. Had he done it to hurt her? Was he really like the others?

 _Stop it_ , Sansa admonished herself. _It isn't his fault you developed a childish crush on him. He's the uncle of your betrothed, nothing more. Whatever you remember happening in Winterfell was just a dream._

Except...except it wasn't. Sansa could still remember the way his lips had felt against hers, could still feel his fist tangled in her hair. She could still taste the honey wine they had been drinking together, could still feel the way her heart had been beating against her rib cage like a bird trying to get free.

"The Queen would like to see you," Shae said, once again interrupting Sansa's reverie.

"And what does the queen want?"

"I don't know, milady." Shae's voice was hard and sullen, and when Sansa turned she could see anger flashing in her dark eyes.

 _Let her hate me_ , she thought, though guilt pricked at her for treating her so poorly.

"Lady Sansa," Queen Cersei crowed when Sansa entered her chambers. The queen was dressed in her usual red and gold finery, her golden hair piled atop her head in the southern fashion.

"My queen," Sansa murmured, dipping into a curtsy. "You sent for me?"

The queen smirked and brought herself to her feet. "Yes, little dove. I thought we had best get on with some of the wedding preparations."

"Your Grace–"

"Yes, I know there is an army camped outside the city," Cersei said, holding up her hand to stop Sansa speaking. "But I thought a royal wedding could be just the distraction we need."

Sansa followed Cersei into the next room for her wedding dress fitting, keeping her eyes on the back of the queen's head the whole way. What could she be thinking, Sansa wondered? The queen hated her, Joffrey had told her so himself. Why was she speeding up the wedding now?

Sansa thought of the knife she kept beneath her pillow, and the letter that had been slipped under her door just that morning. She had no plans of marrying the prince any longer. Not when she had a way out. But she would play the part of the simpering bride for the queen's sake. She would play any part she needed to survive.


	11. The Queen's Proposal

“What is this I’m hearing about moving King Joffrey and Lady Sansa’s wedding up by several months?”

Cersei Lannister turned to see her dwarf brother storming down the stairs into her solar. His black eye was full of fury, the green eye flickering with fear. Of her, Cersei knew. Tyrion had always been afraid of her, even before she was a queen. Truth be told, Cersei had always been a queen. Always been someone to fear.

Cersei liked it that way.

Tyrion stopped at the foot of the chaise where his sister was lounging with a glass of wine, one of her handmaidens standing behind her. “May my sister and I be left alone?” Tyrion asked without looking at the girl.

Cersei waved the girl away, and off she tottered, throwing a disdainful look Tyrion’s way. He didn’t take notice. He was used to it. Even if he was Hand of the King, he was still a dwarf.

“Yes,” Cersei said, tossing her gold curls. “I thought the city needed a distraction. A distraction that wasn’t a battle.”

Tyrion rolled his eyes. “I know you don’t want Lady Sansa to marry Joffrey,” he accused. “Why are you doing this? Tell me why, Cersei.”

Cersei stood up with a scoff and crossed to the table with her wine decanter. “You’re right,” she said. “I don’t want Lady Sansa to marry Joff. I want her to marry _you_.”

Cersei saw a look of shock and pleasure flash across her brother’s misshapen face before he settled his features into a blank stare. “This again,” he said. “I already refused the girl once.” _And it was the worst mistake you ever made, dwarf_ , he thought but didn’t say.

Cersei slammed her glass down, spilling red wine like blood across her table. “I don’t care if you don’t want to marry the girl, though the head in your trousers certainly has a different idea than the one on your shoulders,” she spat, crossing the room and crouching to her brother’s level. “You will marry the Stark girl. Father is giving her to you. Along with Winterfell.”

 _Winterfell_? Tyrion thought. That might be the only place he could be free from his sister, and his father. Winterfell and Lady Sansa as his wife? How could Tyrion refuse?

But then he remembered the last time he had seen Lady Sansa, the betrayal and disgust that had crossed her face when she discovered Shae in his bed. He couldn’t even imagine how her face had looked when she realized he had sent Shae to be her new handmaiden. _Why shouldn’t she hate you, dwarf? You’ve done everything in your power to shove her away._

 _Because she wasn’t yours_ , he reminded himself. _She could be yours now, if you only take her._

But Tyrion knew anything his sister or his father gave him came with a price, often a price too high for him to pay. “No,” he found himself saying. “I will not marry the Stark girl.”

Cersei smiled, her green eyes glinting like a cat’s ready for the kill. _Like a lioness._ "Oh, you _will_ marry the Stark girl. Father will make sure of it.”

Tyrion couldn’t help but shiver at the thought of his father. A deep cold settled in his bones. _Well, at least with this cold, you’ll certainly get used to Winterfell,_ he thought. _And a cold wife in your bed who will never want you,_ another voice reminded him. Whatever Sansa had felt for him once, it was gone. Of that, he was certain.


	12. An Evening in the Godswood

King’s Landing was under siege, and Sansa Stark was escaping to the godswood. Sansa Stark was going home.

She tugged the hood of her cloak over her telltale red hair and reached for the knife she hid in her sleeve. The letter had instructed her to meet her would-be rescuer – the Florian to her Jonquil – in the center of the godswood, where the weirwood tree would have stood if this were Winterfell. 

Sansa didn’t know who had sent her the letter. She hadn’t recognized the hand it was written in, and whoever it was had been smart enough not to sign their name. She knew she could very well be walking into a trap, set by the queen or by her betrothed. She knew she could very well be walking to her death.

But she had to try.

“Is anyone there?” she called out, tightening her grip on the knife she’d filched from one of her breakfast trays. She stepped up to what she presumed to be the center of the godswood, or as near of a center the godswood had, but she still seemed to be alone.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Lady Sansa,” came a voice from behind her. “But it’s only me here.”

Sansa whirled on her heel, bringing the knife up to point at whoever had spoken in case he meant her harm. She was shocked to discover that her weapon seemed to be pointing at nothing, until she tilted her head and found little Lord Tyrion Lannister standing in front of her.

“Are you going to stab me?” Tyrion asked, his mouth twitching into what almost could have been a smile, if it weren’t for the sadness – or was it anger? – in his eyes.

Sansa slowly lowered the knife to her side. She wondered what she ought to say first, if she ought to deny the real reason she was here, if she ought to say she had only come to pray for the safety of the city and for her king. “How did you find me?” she found herself saying.

Tyrion stepped closer to her, holding his hands in front of him as though she were a frightened animal and he was trying to show her he meant no harm. “Shae found your letter,” he said, and Sansa felt as though her knife had been plunged into her stomach.

“So you replaced one spying handmaiden with another,” Sansa snapped, shoving down her guilt at her rudeness. _He humiliated you_ , she reminded herself. _He kissed you and then he left you for a camp follower._

 _I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey_ , another voice answered. _I will be his queen one day. Joffrey is much handsomer than Tyrion. One slip, and I am dead._

But she had already made the slip, and she was already falling to her death. The king’s uncle, his Hand, had found her attempting to escape. She would be executed as a traitor, her head hung to rot beside her father’s on the castle walls. She had failed.

 _I’m sorry, Father_ , she prayed, hoping Ned Stark could hear her, wherever he was. _I’m sorry, Bran, Rickon. I tried to be strong for you._ She hoped they would forgive her, if she ever found them again.

“Lady Sansa,” Tyrion said, and Sansa braced herself, waiting for the Kingsguard to burst into the clearing and arrest her on his command. “I am sorry.”

“You’re…you’re sorry?” Sansa asked, not certain she understood. Was he apologizing for what was about to happen to her?

Far below them, she could hear the beginnings of a battle, armor clanging against armor and men shouting. It was then that she noticed Tyrion was dressed in his own armor, decorated with lions’ heads and claws, gleaming golden in the last rays of sunlight. She hadn’t expected him to join the battle.

“I am sorry,” he said again, offering a conciliatory smile. His green eye gleamed, the black eye hidden in shadow. The sunlight caught the gold in his hair, and Sansa was reminded of how it had felt between her fingers, how soft it had been. She wondered if she would ever feel that softness again. “I am sorry for Shae. I am sorry for what an utter fool I am. I am sorry for not being the man you deserve. I am sorry, Lady Sansa. I only hope that you will stay here, in the capital.” He swallowed nervously. “With me.”

“With you?” Sansa asked, taking a small step back. “What do you mean, my lord?”

“Lady Sansa, I would have you for my wife. If you will have me.”

“Your wife?” Sansa heard her voice tremble, heard herself speak as if from a great distance. “I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey. I am to be his queen and bear his children.”

Tyrion shook his head and stepped forward, taking her hand in his. “I don’t care. I will have you for my wife. If you will have me.”

Sansa didn’t know if this was a trap set by the queen, or if Ilyn Payne were only waiting somewhere nearby to hear her say the words so he could kill her like he’d killed her father. But she found herself saying “Yes, yes,” in spite of herself.

“May I kiss you, my lady?”

Sansa smiled and knelt to the ground, so that their eyes could properly meet. “Sansa. Tyrion, call me Sansa.”

She wrapped her hands in his hair and pulled him close, their lips meeting. His lips were as warm and welcoming as she remembered, his hair as soft, his hands pulling her closer as gentle. She didn’t know if she could truly be his wife. But when he kissed her, she felt as though she already was.


	13. The City Has Fallen

Cersei Lannister stared at Sansa Stark, green eyes shrouded in shadow, as the battle raged in the streets of King's Landing above where they sat in the bowels of the Red Keep.

Shae sat to her left, the foreign girl stewing in silence. Sansa felt like a fly caught in a web, two spiders vying to swallow her whole. It was easy enough to understand why her handmaiden resented her, but the reason for the queen's immediate and lasting hatred had always eluded Sansa.

_My father was a traitor,_ she reminded herself. _My mother and brother are traitors, too._ Joffrey, her betrothed, her king, had taken her father's head for his treachery and forced her to stare at it and the head of her septa spiked on the castle wall. The daughter punished for the sins of the father. _If my King Joffrey were less merciful, that would be my head on the parapet. I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey and his mother the queen. I am not a traitor._

But the memory of her attempted escape and – even worse – Lord Tyrion's mouth on hers taunted her.

"Lady Sansa," the queen called from across the chamber.

Sansa's stomach clenched. _She saw the treachery on my face. Lord Tyrion betrayed me. He is a Lannister just like the rest._ She rose to her feet, tucking her shaking hands inside her sleeves. Shae trailed behind her as she crossed the room and dropped into a curtsy before the queen.

"My queen," they murmured in unison.

Cersei broke out in a smile and gestured at the chaise beside her. "Sit," she commanded. She offered a goblet to Sansa, the scent of wine wafting from the rim. "Drink."

"I'm not thirsty, your Grace." _Is she trying to poison me? Or get me drunk enough to loosen my tongue?_

"I didn't offer you water," the queen scoffed. " _Drink_."

Sansa took the goblet, willing her hands to be still, and took a sip of the bitter liquid. It burned all the way down.

"I hate being trapped down here with these women." The queen surveyed the room full of women praying and weeping. "I would much rather fight in a battle like my brother."

"Lord Tyrion is very brave."

Cersei narrowed her eyes, and Sansa's heart stopped.

But the queen shook her head and laughed. "Not Tyrion. Ser Jaime." She took a sip of her wine and indicated Sansa do the same. "We are twins, but Jaime was given a sword and taught to fight in battles while I was sold like a brood mare to the king to be ridden as he pleased."

Sansa stared into the dark red of her wine. Like the color of her father's blood on the steps of the sept. Like the color staining the Lannister coat of arms. She forced herself to meet the queen's eyes.

"You've been sold as well, little dove. To our new king. To bear children for my son."

"Yes, your Grace."

"What about you?" The queen turned her attention to the handmaiden sitting beside Sansa. "Who are you?"

"Shae, milady. I am Lady Sansa's handmaiden."

"Is that an accent I hear?"

"Yes, milady."

" _Your Grace_."

"Yes, your Grace."

"Where are you from?"

"Lorath, your Grace."

"Lorath," Cersei repeated. "How did you come to be in the service of Lady Sansa?"

Shae glanced at Sansa, a question in her dark eyes, before answering. "I worked for Lord Tyrion until he returned to King's Landing and gave me to Lady Sansa."

"You worked for my brother?" Amusement lit up Cersei's eyes. "You were his whore."

"I–"

"Your Grace!" a voice called from the doorway, where an injured and bleeding Lancel Lannister swayed on his feet, his wide eyes wild. "The king is wounded. The city has fallen. Stannis is coming."


	14. The Battle of the Blackwater

_A/N: Brief mention of rape._

_***_

_Tyrion_ , Sansa thought in a panic. If the city had fallen, that meant Tyrion had fallen with it. And from the way Ser Ilyn Payne stepped away from the door, his hand tightening on the pommel of her father's old sword, Sansa would fall soon too. The queen had said Ser Ilyn was there to protect them, but what was one executioner against an army of warriors?

 _Go to your room, bar the door, and don't let anyone in._ Septa Mordane's voice echoed in Sansa's mind. She rose to her feet, Shae following her, but they were both knocked back into their seats as the queen barreled past.

"Go back out there and tell the king to return to the keep immediately." The queen shoved her finger in her cousin's quivering face.

"I-I can't," Lancel protested. "If the men see the king flee-"

Queen Cersei threw back her fist and punched her cousin in his injured shoulder, a gush of fresh blood staining his mail. Lancel screamed. "I am your _queen_ ," Cersei seethed. "It is not for you to refuse me." She swept out of the room, leaving Lancel behind to fall to his knees, sobs hiccuping out of him.

"All hope is lost!" a woman Sansa couldn't see shouted, and the room erupted in chaos.

  
***

  
Tyrion knew he had to do something if he was going to save the city. His men had seen their king's chest slashed open, had seen the king flee to the safety of the keep, and were now being chased up the shore by those of Stannis' men that had survived the wildfire.

For one brief moment, Tyrion considered letting the city fall. Letting Stannis take the keep and everyone inside. _Let his soldiers rape my sweet sister and the city with her,_ he thought, watching a Baratheon knight cut through a row of his soldiers like they were little more than a nuisance. _Let them execute my vile nephew and put his head on a spike._

But then he remembered. Sansa was inside the castle too. He had to live, for her. Or, if he didn't live, he would at least die saving the city for her.

"Men!" Tyrion shouted. A handful of men paused. "MEN!"

The soldiers that weren't fighting or dying or fleeing gave their attention to the Hand of the King.

  
***

  
"Wait!" Sansa shouted, rushing to the center of the room. Extending her hand to the prone Lancel, she helped him struggle to his feet. She wasn't certain what she was doing, but she knew she had to stop the women from panicking. If they panicked, no matter what happened in the battle outside, the battle inside would be lost. "The Queen has just gone to address the soldiers. The men need her more than we do."

The women had grown quiet, though Sansa could see quite a few of them still wiping away tears with their handkerchiefs. "We are safe here," Sansa insisted. She knew it was a lie, but was a lie truly so bad if it were kindly meant?

"Ser Ilyn will keep us safe. He is very brave."

_Daddy! Her voice sounded so far away. She watched, helpless, as the guards in their Lannister red shoved her father to the ground. Ser Ilyn unsheathed her father's sword._

"Let's sing a hymn," Sansa suggested, and a few of the women nodded their heads. 

"Gentle Mother, font of mercy," Sansa began, her high voice quivering before steadying again. One by one, the women joined her. "Save our sons from war we pray." 

  
***

  
Tyrion's words had seemed to abandon him. He clung to the first thing that came to mind, and hoped it would be enough. "There are a lot of brave men fighting here tonight. Let's go kill them!"

A moment of silence, broken only by the distant screams of fighting and dying men. Then the cheer began. "Kill them! Kill them!"

The men rushed past him into the fray. The green light of the wildfire slowly consuming one of Stannis' warships in the bay bathed everything and everyone in a strange glow. The gilded light turned the battle into a scene from a dream. If Tyrion hadn't smelled the blood and shit and heard the gurgling screams, he almost could have convinced himself war was beautiful.

A blinding pain in the back of his head, a flash of light. The world suddenly spun around him, and the ground rushed up to meet him. His head ached. He rolled onto his back, groaning, and a man's shadowed face hovered above his own. A sword arced into view, glowing green as if it were made of wildfire. It burned as badly when it slashed across his face. A drop of hot blood slid into his eye. Water seeped into his nose.

 _Sansa_ , he thought, before slipping away.

 

 

 


	15. She Loved Him

"Go," Shae whispered under the cacophony of singing voices.

"What?" Sansa wasn't certain she'd heard her right. _Is she helping me?_

"Go to your chambers. Bar the door. Don't let anyone in."

Sansa felt as if she'd seen a ghost, but she turned and ran, right past Ser Ilyn, right through the doors.

The castle seemed deserted. On a usual day, Sansa would have passed a dozen twittering ladies, members of Queen Cersei's court, handmaidens, lords, and gaggles of soldiers patrolling.

Sansa saw no one.

 _The castle will be flooded with Baratheon soldiers soon enough._ She should feel happy. The Lannisters – the monsters who had killed her father – would all be dead. The man her father had died to put on the throne would finally have it. But all she felt was dread.

She slammed her chamber doors behind her and slid the deadbolt into place. Now that she was alone, she could fall apart.

She crumpled to the floor, back pressed to the door. She buried her face in her hands, but the tears wouldn't come. She had used all her tears on the people the Lannisters had already taken from her. On her father, her septa, on Jory Cassell, on her dear friend Jeyne Poole, who had been taken from her chambers by Lannister soldiers and never seen at court again. Even on her sister Arya, whom she hadn't seen since before Ned Stark had been arrested.

_The Lannisters are getting what they deserve._

But not Tyrion. He had always been kind to her. Unfailingly kind. He wanted to marry her, even though she knew she would never be able to break her betrothal to Joffrey. Tyrion loved her.

And...she loved him.

She shook her head, Lancel's words echoing in her mind as she got to her feet. _The city has fallen. If Tyrion's not dead yet, he will be very soon. I have to leave._

She crossed the room and dropped to her knees beside her bed. She pulled a small bundle from beneath into her lap. She had packed the bag full of clothes when the letter had been slid under her door. She retrieved the kitchen knife from beneath her pillow and headed for the door, swinging it open.

"My lady." King Joffrey stood in the doorway, blood leaking from a wound on his upper right chest, a smile on his face.


	16. The King's Kiss

"My king!" Sansa dropped to her knees. They quivered on the hard floor. Her heart pounded in her chest. _He knows. He knows I'm a traitor like my father. My head will end up on a spike on the castle walls._

"Isn't that a lovely picture?" Joffrey drawled, biting his lip. Sansa rose to her feet, nausea gnawing at the pit of her stomach. "My lady on her knees."

Her cheeks felt like they were on fire. "Yes, your Grace."

He hooked a finger beneath her chin and forced her to meet his eyes. "Look at your king when he speaks to you."

"Yes, your Grace."

He crushed his lips against hers, more a punch than a kiss. Everything in Sansa screamed at her to run, but she returned the kiss, moving her lips in tandem with his. Where Lord Tyrion's kiss had been gentle and patient, Joffrey's was violent and demanding. His tongue dove for her throat and she fought back the urge to gag. He bit her bottom lip, and she could feel blood dripping down her chin from the bite. His hands wandered from her hair down her dress, farther and farther.

Joffrey broke away. "Go to the bed and take off your dress."

"My king, you are wounded," Sansa managed to choke out. "And we are not yet wed."

Joffrey's green eyes turned to ice. His grip on her wrist tightened painfully. "I am your _king._ Go to your bed, and _take off your dress._ "

Sansa squeezed the hilt of the knife hidden in her sleeve. This wasn't what was supposed to happen. She was supposed to meet her mysterious benefactor in the godswood and return to Winterfell. She was supposed to take her home back. She was supposed to marry Tyrion. Not this.

_I could kill him. I could slip the knife in his heart and he would never torture me again._

"What is going on here?"

Queen Cersei stood in the doorway, her chin held high, green eyes glinting mad.

Joffrey shoved Sansa say from him, her legs crashing against the side of her bed.

"Mother," Joffrey said, swaying on his feet, blood seeping from his wound and leaving bright red drops on the floor.

"Go see Maester Pycelle for your wounds," Cersei commanded.

Joffrey's face reddened. "I am the _king_. It is not for you to give me orders."

"I am your _mother_." Cersei stepped closer to her son, the tiara nestled in her hair catching the candlelight. Cersei was the true queen, no matter what Joffrey or the Seven Kingdoms believed. "Go see Maester Pycelle for your wound. A king must take care of himself before he can care for his kingdom."

Joffrey finally left, muttering angrily under his breath, blood trailing after him. Sansa felt sick.

The queen turned her gaze to Sansa. Sansa was suddenly painfully aware of her bruised and bleeding lip, her hair mussed from Joffrey's assault.

"You little whore," Cersei snarled, crossing the room until she stood inches from Sansa.

"I am sorry, my queen." Sansa could smell the wine on Cersei's breath.

"I know what you did," the Queen whispered. "With my brother. With the _Imp_."

Sansa's stomach twisted. "No, I-I never–"

"Save your filthy lies," Cersei snapped. She tilted her head, considering the trembling girl in front of her. "A traitor, just like your father. I was right about you from the beginning."

"My queen." Cersei turned away from Sansa toward the voice.

Sansa had never been so glad to see Ser Lancel in her life.

"Lord Tywin arrived with the Lannister forces. Stannis Baratheon is in retreat. The city is saved."


	17. Searching

Sansa wandered the halls of the keep. It was hours past midnight, closer to dawn than nightfall. The keep was empty, the last people still awake gathered in the throne room with Lord Tywin, who had saved them all. She had stood among the crowd of lords and ladies and smallfolk, listening to their whispers about the battle. It seemed Lord Tyrion had been wounded and saved from drowning by his squire Podrick Payne. Sansa didn't know what they had done with him, if he was with Maester Pycelle still, or if they had brought him back to the Tower of the Hand. _Maybe he's with Shae_. She hadn't seen her handmaiden since she'd left her with the singing women.

Sansa rounded the corner and found herself nose-to-nose with Lord Petyr Baelish.

"Lord Baelish!"

Petyr Baelish was an exceptionally short man with a dark beard shrouding a cruel mouth. Sansa knew he had been a ward of her grandfather Hoster Tully's, but she had never met him until she arrived at court. She didn't like the way he looked at her.

"Lady Sansa." Lord Baelish snatched her hand from her side and placed a kiss on the knuckle. "What are you doing up so late at night?"

Sansa swallowed. "I couldn't sleep for the excitement of the battle." It wasn't the entire truth, but it wasn't a lie, either.

"I was going to attend the Hand of the King," Lord Baelish said, grabbing hold of Sansa's elbow and steering her down the hall back the way she came. _The Hand of the King._ Sansa's heart skipped a beat.

"I thought Lord Tyrion was wounded in the battle."

Sansa thought she saw a look of disgust flicker briefly across Lord Petyr's face before he replied, "Lord Tywin has resumed his duties as Hand of the King. His son is recovering privately."

"So Lord Tyrion still lives, then?"

Lord Baelish stole a glance at her out of the corner of his sea-foam green eye. "Why so curious about Lord Tyrion, Lady Sansa? Have you developed a sort of... _fondness_ for the Imp after all these months away from home?"

_One slip and I am dead_. "No. Of course not." Somehow she had managed to keep her voice steady. They were nearly to the throne room now. "I was worried for him. He kept us safe while Lord Tywin was away on his campaign." _Against my brother,_ she thought but didn't say.

Lord Baelish's face softened as they paused where they stood. "'Tis only a jape, sweetling." He cupped her chin for a brief moment before taking a step back. "I am afraid I had best see to the Hand before he replaces me as spymaster. Goodnight, Lady Sansa."

Sansa watched him walk away until he cleared the corner and disappeared. _Does he know? He must_. Lord Petyr knew everything that went on in the castle, possibly everything that happened in all Seven Kingdoms. But would he reveal her? _He grew up with my mother at Riverrun. Surely there is enough loyalty there to keep me safe._ There had even been whispers among the smallfolk of Winterfell that Petyr Baelish had once harbored designs to marry her mother, but was too lowborn.

There was no time to ponder it now. Lord Petyr had said Tyrion was recovering privately. If he was no longer the Hand, Sansa was unsure where to search for him. She supposed, even if he was no longer there, he had been with Maester Pycelle sometime during the night. It was as good a place to start as any.

The maester's quarters were deep inside the castle, down a dark and drafty hall. It wasn't exactly the best environment for ailing men, but Cersei hated Pycelle, and so had him hidden away. _The queen hates Tyrion too. Maybe she's hidden him away as well._ It was a wonder Cersei hadn't locked Sansa away in a place like this.

She knocked on the door, and Maester Pycelle stuck his head in the gap between the door and the frame, his body obscuring her view of the room behind him. "Lady Sansa?"

"The king sent me." Somehow she hadn't thought to have a reason for her visit at the ready. She latched onto the first thing that came to mind, the only thing that still gave her any sort of protection in the castle. "To inquire after his uncle's wellbeing."

"Ah. Of course." The maester stepped into the hall, closing the door behind him. "Follow me."

He swept down the hall, Sansa close on his heels. He stopped before a tiny door in an even darker and draftier corner of the castle and fetched a ring of keys from his sleeve. "Lord Tyrion is recovering from his injuries. Be sure not to disturb him."

Sansa stepped into the tiny dark room, the only illumination the light from the hall. But it was enough light to see the garishly red wound slicing his face in two.

 

 

 


End file.
